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It is some dream that on the deck

You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and

still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor

will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed

and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob

ject won;
Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.



To my true king I offered free from stain
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
For him I languished in a foreign clime,
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;
Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to weep;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting-place I asked, an early grave.

O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
From that proud country which was once mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.



DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile

away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,

Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide

dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. “Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,

Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o'Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed

them long ago.”



Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas

come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound,

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; When the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.



A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free -
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.




There was a youth, a well-beloved youth,

And he was a squire's son;
He loved the bayliffe's daughter dear,

That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coy and would not believe

That he did love her so,
No nor at any time would she

Any countenance to him show.

But when his friends did understand

His fond and foolish mind,
They sent him up to faire London

An apprentice for to bind.

And when he had been seven long years,

And never his love could see:


Many a tear have I shed for her sake,

When she little thought of me.

Then all the maids of Islington

Went forth to sport and play,
All but the bayliffe's daughter dear;

She secretly stole away.

She pulled off her gown of green,

And put on ragged attire,
And to faire London she would go

Her true love to inquire.

And as she went along the high road,

The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank,

And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour so redd,

Catching hold of his bridle-reine;
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said,

Will ease me of much pain.

Before I give you one penny, sweetheart,

Pray tell me where you were born. At Islington, kind sir, said she,

Where I have had many a scorn.

I prythe, sweetheart, then tell to me,

O tell me, whether you know,
The bayliffe's daughter of Islington.

She is dead, sir, long ago.

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